


An Itch Into A Bruise

by letbygones



Category: Promare (2019)
Genre: Excessive amounts of product placement, First Meetings, M/M, Mentions of Death, Mild Sexual Content, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Snippets of domesticity, Strangers to Lovers, coping with change
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:40:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24655468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letbygones/pseuds/letbygones
Summary: "We're both dangerous," Meis shrugs, like it's easy for him to say. "And I don't know about you, but it feels damn good to be dangerous, for once."In which Gueira's not used to his flames yet, and Meis isn't used to holding back.
Relationships: Gueira/Meis (Promare)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 82





	An Itch Into A Bruise

**Author's Note:**

> [Because it was stuck in my head.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8EMLbKNcKww)

They're thirty-something minutes out of downtown Dallas, and Gueira's already panicking.

"You said you lived near DFW," he mutters, mouth around a dying cigarette. The window's down, and the pickup truck's pushing seventy-five in the fast lane, but somehow, he's still hot and sweaty. No breeze has been enough to cool him.

"More or less," the driver says. "Headed that way now."

"Don't bullshit me, we passed the airport ten minutes ago," Gueira bites, exhaling like a dragon. He crushes the last of his smoke against the dashboard, grinding a long streak of burnt ash across the vinyl. "You think I didn't notice? Saw the tower and the runway and everything."

He's being rude, but he's probably being kidnapped. You're allowed to be rude when you're being kidnapped.

His kidnapper chuckles, low and sweet.

When meeting him at Greyhound station earlier, Gueira near pissed himself in relief. The man looks just like his profile picture: long, dark hair (if a little bit greasy); next-to-no eyebrows (but shaved that way on purpose). Handsome, like a spider— scary, in the way he liked. Thin ribcage, thinner legs, but not as thin as Gueira, who'd lost fifteen pounds in the last two weeks from stress and hunger and fear.

Still, Gueira could take him in a fight— probably. He has his knife on him.

"Lovefield?" the driver smirks, as he turns down the volume on the stereo. "That was Lovefield."

"What?"

"That wasn't DFW," he says cooly, reaching for the open pack of Newports in the cupholder. He fingers a cigarette out of the foil and pops it between his lips. "We got two airports."

Gueira watches the cigarette bob up and down as the man speaks.

"Oh," he blinks, sinking down in his seat. "My bad."

The radio station plays commercials for auto dealerships and restaurants he's never heard of before. The sky's dark gray and bulging, like it'll rain soon. Gueira wants to make small talk, maybe, like _why'd they rebuild two airports if only thirty-percent of the damn population survived?_ or _how do I know you're not lying through your teeth?_ , but he's smart enough to keep his lips zipped.

"I'm not gonna hurt you," the man next to him decides to say, as though he can read Gueira's mind. He's not smiling anymore, so maybe he means it. "We're almost there."

He raises his free hand up to his lips, snaps his fingers, and lights his cigarette— no Zippo, no Bic, no match. Just his bare-ass fingers lighting a fire, just like Gueira'd done a moment before, with mutant flames he's not used to yet. Just like Gueira tries to do again, after Meis tells him it's okay to grab another smoke.

Only this time, he can't light the damn thing, because his hands are shaking real fuckin' _bad_.

"I got you," Meis tells him, stealing a wary glance at passing cars. He waits until the traffic's staggered, lights his flame again, and holds it up for Guiera. "Do it quick. Cop coming up on the right. Lean in a bit, my peripheral sucks on that side."

***

Meis lives in a garage on a cul-de-sac. The house is owned by "someone he met at church", and Gueira's not sure if that's supposed to be a joke or not.

They park the truck on the street, behind a PT Cruiser with window clings advertising someone's pet grooming service. It's a family neighborhood, Meis tells him, so keep quiet and lay low. "If you gotta burn, tell me, and I'll drive us somewhere," he says under his breath. "I know it's hell to control. We'll figure something out."

"How long'd it take you?" Gueira asks, while unpacking his duffel bag. "To control it, I mean?"

"Couple months. Still workin' on it."

"Yeah?" Gueira grunts. "And you like. Still live here— in the 'burbs n' stuff? And it's okay?"

From his spot on the couch (between a minifridge and a tool bench), Meis shrugs. "Not really." He pops the fridge open with his boot and stretches to grab a soda. He tosses one to Gueira, and it's already warm.

They'd met online, like all of them do. They'd talked about their families and finances, their lost jobs and burnt houses. They'd helped each other encrypt their chat logs and hide their locations, close their accounts and change their names and kiss their lives goodbye, for now. Maybe forever.

Gueira had met tens or hundreds of people like him in the past few weeks alone, but it never got any easier.

"Why'd you invite me to stay with you?" he asks Meis, before he can use his brain. "Like, what if I fuck up and burn down the neighborhood?"

The can in Meis' hand hisses with foam when he pops it open. He chases it with his mouth, frantically sucking down the avalanche.

"Iunno," Meis mumbles against the can. He pulls back and wipes his face clean. "Maybe you will. Maybe I will. You're no more of a liability than I am."

Gueira feels a heat rising in his guts, but it's only anxiety, for now.

"Yeah, I guess."

"Serious," Meis says, eyebrows raised. "Stop actin' like you're the only ticking time bomb in this garage. Have a drink. Chill for a bit."

So Gueira tries to take his advice. The garage floor is smooth and oily, and he sits cross-legged like a preschooler. The soda tastes like nothing. He relaxes without trying, as the exhaustion of traveling for eighteen hours has long-since seeped into his extremities. "I dunno. I just feel dangerous, you know?"

"We're both dangerous," Meis shrugs, like it's easy for him to say. "And I don't know about you, but it feels damn good to be dangerous, for once."

He looks at Guiera, _really_ looks at him, and Gueira starts to feel dissected— but he likes it. It's weird.

He cracks a grin at the floor, by Meis' boots.

"Okay, yeah. I'll drink to that."

They raise their soda cans in a toast, and Gueira knocks back half his cherry Coke in one gulp. They both burp, and it's fuckin' heaven to be burping again, like things are normal and funny again.

***

"I killed my grandma," Gueira chokes on snot, face in his knees. "Fuck, man. You know that? I killed my fuckin' grandparents."

Meis has a hand on his shoulder, maybe. It's hard to tell.

"It's not your fault," he says to him, low and calm. "None of this is our fault."

"It is," Gueira snorts, smiling hysterically. He can't see too well with his eyes all blurry like this. "Three nurses, eight patients, and my own damn grandparents, 'cuz I couldn't take bad news like a fuckin' adult—"

Meis suddenly cuts him off, hands dragging him upwards by his armpits. Gueira grunts in protest, but Meis is already pulling him through the open garage door toward the truck. His boots scuff the concrete as he thrashes in protest—

"The _fuck,_ man—"

"Get in the truck bed. Now. Don't touch anything, your hands are burning."

Gueira looks at his fists. So they are.

He wants to tell Meis _I told you so_ — that he's not safe to be around yet, that he's still too raw and lethal to be in any one place for too long— but rather than driving his explosive cargo out of the cul-de-sac, Meis climbs up onto the truck bed after him, and covers his hands with his own.

Steel blue flames wrap down around Gueira's wrists, low and steady and smarter than his own peachy red. At first, he fights it— or _they_ fight it, the voices, his fire, his dangerous emotions— but Meis is gentle, and nothing but patient. They keep their hands in their laps, conjoined and shielded from neighborhood view, while the cool night's air settles around them. 

Somehow, his flames start to react. They shrink down into something short and simmering, as if they're being _taught_. There's a wisdom to the way Meis touches him, and maybe they can feel it too.

Neither of them say anything. Gueira just sits there with his stupid hands in his stupid lap in the back of this stupid stranger's Ford F-150, and he just keeps sobbing into this guy's shoulder until he can't anymore.

"You're good," Meis hums, voice deeper than usual. "You got this."

"I'm still on fire," Gueira rolls his eyes. Meis' shirt smells like sweat and dust, but it's fine.

"Didn't say you had to put it out." 

"Don't think I could, anyway."

"Don't," Meis says, pulling back to look Gueira in the eye. "Really. More you fight it, worse it gets. Let it happen."

He wants to tell Meis that _letting it happen_ was what started all this in the first place, but he keeps his damn mouth shut. Instead, he rears back and headbutts Meis in the shoulder.

"Ow, the fuck was that for—"

"I'm mad," Gueira smirks against him.

"You're _mad?_ "

"Yeah," he smiles. "You yanked my armpits real hard."

"And I'll yank 'em again, if I gotta," Meis says, squinting. "Got it?"

"Yeah," Gueira nods, feeling Meis' hands squeeze his own. He snorts down his post-nasal drip and coughs out a laugh. "Cool."

***

Days become boring again, for a while.

Meis works ten hours a day on coding and computer stuff that Gueira really doesn't understand. He gets paid for freelance work from overseas companies who have no idea he's Burnish, let alone Texan.

"I've got connections through school," he explains one day, when Gueira decides to be nosy. "Helping a start-up in Sendai right now. I just told them I'm on sabbatical and I'm only doing contract gigs."

"On sabbatical," Gueira snorts. "In Dallas."

"Coppell," Meis corrects him, for the zillionth time. "But, yeah."

"You're such a dirty liar," Gueira snorts as he plops down on the couch next to Meis. He takes the liberty of stretching his legs out over his friend's thighs, and Meis is forced to reposition his laptop.

"I'm making us money," he shrugs, turning his attention back to his work.

Gueira doesn't comment on the _us_ part, or the fact that Meis didn't shove him off this time. They've been hunkered down for a month now, and Gueira'd quickly learned what pisses Meis off, or makes him laugh. Truth be told? Both were fun to aim for.

"Do you want me to make some money too?" he asks, again, before he thinks.

A flash of an expression crosses Meis' face, but he doesn't say anything. It's quiet in the daytime, and all they hear is the neighbor's kid throwing a tantrum. For some reason, Gueira almost regrets bringing it up— like he'd asked too much, somehow.

Like he'd asked for permanency.

"... Can you?" Meis finally questions, and it's far from condescending. "Like, objectively, do you have a way to work while you're off the grid?"

Something like shame twists in Gueira's stomach. "No," he admits, readjusting his legs. "I don't have those kind of long-distance skills or nothin'."

"What were you doing before?" Meis asks gently, because Gueira knows he tends to be a real fuckin' minefield these days.

"Trade school. HVAC."

"Hey, that's in high demand," Meis smiles, but Gueira wriggles in his spot. "You okay? Didn't mean to ask a personal question."

"It's chill," Gueira shakes his head. He decides to open the Solitaire app on his cell phone instead, and he finds himself staring at the home screen.

"Gueira."

"It's chill!" he reiterates, shrugging for maximum chill-ocity.

He doesn't mention the rescinded football scholarship, or the valedictorian speech, or the decision to drop out in his first quarter of college. He doesn't mention going back to live with his grandparents, or the insurance denials, or the stint in county jail.

Instead, he puffs out a big breath, and launches his messy bangs up out of his eyes. 

"But, like, just so you know," he starts, prodding Meis with his ankle. "I would if I could. Work, you know? To help out in the long run."

Meis looks at him with a difficult frown, and it's hard to read his thoughts like this. Gueira's not delusional; he knows he's no fuckin' mind reader, but he's always been kinda good at predicting people. With Meis, though, he keeps drawing a blank; it's like in that one Twilight novel his sister made him read where the sleazy vampire guy's dick gets hard 'cuz he can't read Bella's mind. Thing is, Gueira's dick is a real gentleman in comparison, and he's not like, _into_ Meis, because that'd be stupid and dumb and kinda shitty after all he's done for him so far, but— 

Meis keeps him guessing, and he doesn't like how antsy that makes him.

"In the long run, huh?" Meis slowly smiles, grabbing Gueira's ankle in a vice grip.

"Oh, eat my ass, don't say it like _that_."

"I'm not sayin' nothin' about nothin'."

Gueira kicks him, for real this time, and lands a hit dangerously close to his nutsack.

***

It happens when Gueira's jumped in the grocery store parking lot.

They've loaded up the cart with microwaveable meals and chips and beer, and Gueira's laughing about something Meis wasn't listening to in the first place. There's a million-watt smile on Gueira's doofy face, and he's riding the cart like a scooter— like all the pictograms on the flip-down child seat explicitly warn against. Every time he says something stupid, he pushes off with his foot, and glides across the asphalt before Meis can thwack him on the ass again.

After they've dumped their purchases into the truck bed, Meis decides to be a good person. He walks the cart back up to the store entry, shoves it in a corner by the brick retaining wall, and wipes his balmy hands on his jeans. He's still smiling when he hears Gueira scream like a wildcat— and then his heart's in his throat, and his boots hit pavement.

Meis gets honked at when he dodges a car, but he's not paying attention. He scans the parking lot for their truck, zeroes in on Gueira's hunched-over body, and loses his shit when he sees three figures surrounding him in the dark.

"Fuck," Gueira coughs, spitting blood on the wheel wells. " _Shit_ —"

The kid holding his arms back recoils in pain when he's singed by sparks and heat— sharp, formless red and green, big at first, then dying down. Gueira kicks a guy in the stomach, knocking the breath out of him, but it doesn't hold him off for long. Someone throws a punch. Gueira jerks sideways, taking it like a _champ_ , like he's done this a hundred times before. Every time he's hit, his flames rear up on high, but then they quickly smother out.

Meis realizes what he's doing.

"Fuck it, Gueira, _use them!_ —" he grunts, hooking an arm around the neck of the attacker closest to him. The guy's twice his size, but he screams in horror when Meis sets both of their bodies on fire.

Through blistering pops and a hellish stench, the man falls to the ground, now a writhing silhouette of electric blue. The rest of the group scatters, dropping Gueira on the pavement.

A tire on a nearby Camaro pops from the heat, louder than a firework. Every car alarm in the parking lot goes off, and Gueira's frozen in shock and bodily memories. He wipes his mouth with newly-freed and shaky hands, but no evidence of blood exists now.

Meis doesn't tell him he's burning higher than the streetlights.

Instead, he tugs on his belt, breathlessly tells him _Come on, we gotta go,_ and hauls him into the truck cab.

***

They're thirty-something minutes past the border of New Mexico, and Meis is still white-knuckling the steering wheel.

"I dropped my knife," Gueira says quietly. His head's turned out toward the open window, messy hair whipping in the breeze that never helps them. "I'm better than that. I can fight, y'know?"

Meis sets his jaw and turns on the radio. It's midnight, and every station's no more than static this far out into the desert. He pokes it back off.

"I know you're real mad at me right now," Gueira tries again. "I know I just fucked everything up for you—"

"Stop," Meis says. He reaches for his box of Newports, but it falls beneath the seat. 

"Jeez, sorry?" Gueira grunts, twisting back around. "I just wanted to apologize, that's all."

Meis sighs, bringing a hand up to scratch away the crust in the corner of his eyes. "That's what I'm saying. You don't have to apologize for anything."

"Then why are you bein' such a jackass right now?"

"I'm not—" Meis grits, before thumping back against the headrest in defeat. "Fine. Okay. Look. I'm sorry. You keep blaming yourself, and the more you talk like that, the more it pisses me off."

"Then I'll just shut up, I guess," Gueira says petulantly.

"No you won't," Meis smirks.

The dashboard takes on the weight of Gueira's heavy boots, untied and crossed at the ankles. His bony knees jut out like a frog, because his legs are too long, and the seat won't roll back any more. "You're right! I won't. I'm gonna keep apologizing 'til we get to wherever we're goin', and then I'm gonna hop outta this truck and walk into the desert and crawl in a hole and die. That sound about right? That sound like somethin' I should do?"

The truck swerves with a sudden jolt as Meis pulls onto the highway shoulder. He kills the engine, puts it in Park, and hastily unbuckles his seatbelt.

"What are you—"

"Shut up. Listen to me," he starts, heart punching through his ribcage. "You think I didn't see you holding back? You think you can just pretend you're this weak-ass piece of shit? That's bull, Gueira, and you know it. You could've _wasted_ those guys without my help, but you didn't, because you're a good fuckin' guy. You keep trying to be this harmless fuckin' _nobody_ like that's _good_ for you, but it's not," he breathes, mouth dry and dangerous. "You're powerful. Cut the shit. You held back because you've got _morals,_ but you're powerful, and you can't hide that."

Gueira stares at him, still buckled into his seat. He opens his mouth to argue, but Meis cuts him off again.

"Don't! Stop. I'm sorry. You know that? This is _my_ fault, _I'm_ the one who escalated things, so you need to stop fuckin' apologizing, and start being angry with me for acting without thinking."

"You killed a guy back there," Gueira counters, jabbing a thumb back behind him. "Right there, in front of God and Wal-Mart and everyone! You did that for me! Like hell I'm gonna be angry at you for that— and pardonnez _moi_ for feelin' fuckin' responsible, because I'm gonna feel that way forever now!"

"Well great, hearing that makes me feel real _peachy_ —"

"Yeah, well, maybe it should."

"Whatever."

"Okay."

They fall into silence, punctuated only by the crackle of flames licking the soles of Gueira's shoes. The vinyl on the dashboard starts to melt, but Meis doesn't give a shit anymore. He buries his face in his hands and leans forward against the steering wheel. Closes his eyes. Breathes deep.

Gueira's hand finds his bare shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze. It's warm and rough with callouses worse than his own, but he doesn't shrug it off. A few moments pass, and it tentatively snakes its way under the band of his tank top, rubbing at skin and muscle.

"I'm sorry," Meis says quietly. "I'm scared."

"I know you are," Gueira answers, his handsome voice low and steady. "I am too."

"I just thought that... I don't know," Meis shrugs, resting his cheek on the rim of the wheel as he turns to face Gueira. "I figured it'd be easier, if we helped each other out. You came all the way from Florida, and I blew it for you."

Gueira's hand trails over to the center of his spine, and it feels way nicer than it should. "Nah. You saved my life. You're right, I woulda let them slit my damn throat before I did anything about it."

"Why?" Meis asks, searching his face. "I know you wanna stay safe and keep on the DL. I get that. But that's not worth risking your life."

Gueira smiles, of all possible reactions, and it's sobering. "Couple o' reasons. One, you accidentally blow up a hospital ward, you kinda get traumatized by the fire stuff for a bit," he says, chuckling like it's a Sunday funny. "Two, I like what we had goin' for us back there. Thought that maybe, if I didn't fuck it up too bad, we could still have a normal life. Sorta."

"Sorta," Meis shrugs in warm agreement.

"I dunno," Gueira says, almost in a whisper. He turns his head back out toward the desert sky, dark and endless and unknowable. "I just liked living with you, that's all."

Meis closes his eyes, if only for a moment. He feels Gueira's hand leave his back, but he doesn't feel any colder without it.

"We could try again, sometime," he decides to say. "When things make more sense. You're a good roommate. Could be nice."

The glove compartment under Gueira's legs starts dripping molten plastic, and he laughs. "Roommate," he says, voice bright and cynical.

"Pal, then," Meis corrects, running his fingertips along the line of Gueira's legs. 

"Buddy," Gueira hums, finding his hand and wrapping it in his own.

Meis feels his pulse in his esophagus, like an undigested ball of food. He squeezes Gueira's sturdy hand and straightens up in his seat.

When they kiss, it's slow and natural, like they've known each other for years. When they try to break apart, they discover they don't know how to stop.

***

When the Ford finally runs out of gas, they leave it. "Too identifiable, anyway," Meis says, giving the fender one final goodbye kick. They pile supplies in a tarp and tie it off with the jute Meis kept in the back. The road ahead is warped with dancing heat, and they follow it until they can't anymore.

Gueira figures it out first.

One night, it's just a wheel. Short, thick, red and green. It leaves burning trails where it rolls, and they laugh when it settles near drybrush and ignites an entire field.

Then, it's a seat, or something like it. Gueira'd been complaining about sitting his bony ass on the ground, so he tried to melt down a couple of rocks— only to find out the fire actually supported his weight. "Shit, man," he'd laughed, molding his flames into a very ugly model of a lawn chair. "It's like, hot K'nex. You remember K'nex? Those cool-ass roller coaster toy things?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Meis had laughed, and kissed his neck until it hurt.

***

By the time they find more people like them, Gueira's no longer afraid to burn.

Their rides are loud and showy, with pointed tailpipes and ridiculous colors. Meis discloses his embarrassing past as a sore loser, in which dirtbikes and trophies were things that never simultaneously existed for him.

Gueira mentions breaking his teenage collarbone on an ATV, and Meis mentions breaking his teenage heart on a guy who'd dumped him before prom night.

They fuck before they make it to Nevada, because it feels good, and they don't have any reason not to.

***

In fact, everything feels good, and nothing needs a reason anymore.

They set flame to a high rise, because they can, and they deserve to.

Gueira gets the shakes again, but he dares Meis to tell him not to burn, now. _I dare you to tell me to back off. I'm not hiding this shit anymore. You were right_.

***

When they're twenty-nine and tangled together in the cool of a cave, Gueira buries his nose against his boyfriend's chest. "I want a coke," he says, mouth reverberating against Meis' skin. "I want a god damn cherry coke, and I want it _cold_ with _ice_ and a big loopy straw."

"Yeah?" Meis says, smiling into the darkness.

"Yeah," Gueira huffs. "And get this: I wanna couple shots of rum, and I wanna sit my ass down on the beach and get drunk and sunburned so bad you gotta smear some aloe on me," he says, bringing his face up for air. "Don't that sound good?"

"Sounds good," Meis agrees sleepily. "I'm drinkin' too, though. No DD. We can get a cheap room for the night, somewhere."

"And we'll make out a bunch and I'll ride your sweet cock so hard it—"

"Shhhh," Meis says, clamping a hand over Gueira's mouth. "Shhhh. Yes. Sure. Whatever you want, babe."

But Gueira noodles his way back up to face Meis, close enough to whisper in his ear. The dirt beneath them skids with the movement, sending quiet echoes over to their sleeping comrades. "Gonna do it. You watch. Gonna _bite it_ —"

Meis accidentally lets out a laugh when he shoves his boyfriend's face away. They're warm and wrapped together, half-naked as they let their handwashed shirts dry on a clothesline, and Meis feels luckier than he did when he had a couch to sleep on. He feels more grateful than he did when he had a truck, or a job, or a laptop.

He playfully slaps at the man he'd picked up from the Dallas Greyhound station five years ago, and he thanks a good-for-nothing God he's still here with him- down in the dirt with him, forever on this shithole of a planet with him, until one of them dies.

Maybe both of them, if they're lucky.

***

When they wake up, they're still alive. 

When they head out for the day, they survive, somehow.

Thirteen hours later, when they're ready for the worst, they meet Lio Fotia.

Gueira's still got a hickey on his thigh.

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't like, my actual gueimei origin story headcanon, but it was nice to write anyway. Just had an extra evening to pump out a drabble and it got too long.
> 
> I kind of write oneshots in a very mindless improv state so I hope they're coherent and entertaining to read at least!


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